


A Real Fine Place to Start

by starkidpatronus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, POV Third Person Limited, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkidpatronus/pseuds/starkidpatronus
Summary: Of course, it was far easier back when it was just a sex thing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "A Real Fine Place to Start" by Sara Evans.  
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked; feel free to point out any mistakes!

                Molly Hooper.

                Flowers. Cats. Hand-knitted sweaters. Smiles. Laughter, no, _giggles_. Singing soft lullabies. Sundresses. _Party_ dresses. Chestnut hair. A heart three times larger than that of most people.

                Greg Lestrade.

                Guns. Paperwork. Divorce. Old ties. Scowls. The very occasional chuckle. A terrible singing voice. Tattered jackets. Not enough party invites to have proper attire for them. Gray hair. A heart too easily broken.

                Molly Hooper—A woman who deserves the world.

                Greg Lestrade—A man who doesn’t even deserve what he has, much less what he wants.

                Because, oh Lord, does he ever want Molly Hooper.

                It started out as just a sex thing—She’d always been pretty, but when she took off her coat to show off her dress at that one Christmas party all those years ago— _Jesus_ , Greg was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten _any_ sleep that night.

                And he’d felt dirty about it, of course, because she was _so_ much younger, and it was _creepy_ , and he felt just _disgusting_ to be one of those older guys lusting after and leering at a woman half his age, but—well, he couldn’t help it. He wanted to, but—he couldn’t, and—and then it got worse.

                It slowly and unwittingly grew into more. He’d notice how she’d styled her hair in a fanciful way, then blush when he complimented it in passing. He’d find himself laughing too hard at one of her jokes. He’d admire the skill she possessed in her work, and stare, mesmerized, when she went off on long rambles about some new theory. He’d eat up every word, despite it having no real relevance to the case at hand.

                Before he knew it, he was in too deep.

                Now, Greg wants Molly in every sense of the word. In his kitchen, sitting at the table while he makes them both breakfast. On his sofa, flicking through the channels on the telly. In his office, surprising him with lunch, and by his side when he stopped by Bart’s to do the same for her. And yes, still in his bed, but now, not in such an… _animal_ way.

                Of course, it was far easier back when it was just a sex thing.

                When it was just a sex thing, Greg didn’t have to deal with his stomach lurching at the sight of a ring on her finger.

                He didn’t have to deal with hiding the tremor in his voice when he asked, “Is it serious, you two?”

                He didn’t have to deal with rushing to stifle his sigh when she replied, “Yeah; I’ve moved on,” the unspoken “and not to you” heard only by himself.

                Sex was always far, far easier than emotions.

                Which is why he doesn’t say no to the offer from a woman he meets on a now-resolved case of some healthy casual sex. He figures that one-night-stands are nothing to get in a tizzy over; they happen all the time, so why can’t they happen for him?

                And then he doesn’t say no when that same woman suggests making said casual sex a regular thing.

                Granted, he doesn’t say yes _immediately_. He asks for a couple of days to think it over, which he does, weighing the pros and cons. At the end of the day, though, it just makes sense. He doesn’t stand a chance with Molly, since she’s engaged. He’s not getting anything from anyone else. And, let’s face it, he has needs.

                So, he says yes.

                They have an unofficial schedule; he’ll generally go over to her place every Monday and Thursday, she’ll generally go over to his place every Saturday. The pattern works for both their work schedules and keeps them both plenty satisfied.

                Greg’s sitting in the morgue one day, chatting with Molly during the last ten minutes of his lunch break, when it comes up.

Molly says _something_ about plants, and Maria has a lot of those, so naturally, he replies, “Oh, yeah, I was over at Maria’s the other night and—”

                “Maria’s?” Molly cuts him off, brow furrowed. “Who’s Maria?”

                “Uh—” _Shit_. Why was he not born with some semblance of a fucking _filter?_ He swallows, shifting in his seat. “That woman whose case we solved about a month and a half ago. The one with the dead brother, remember?”

                “Yes,” Molly says evenly. “Why were you at her place?”

                “Well, uh—” Greg scratches at the back of his head, unsure of how to approach this. Should he lie? What would the lie even _be?_ But if he doesn’t lie, how the hell is supposed to describe the truth of his current situation? “We’re uh—” He sighs, deciding to just come out with it, “We’re sort of having casual sex.”

                Molly’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “Casual sex?”

                “Yes.”

                “You’re having casual sex with a woman whose case we solved a month and a half ago?”

                “That’s right.”

                Molly huffs, looking ahead of her and shaking her head. She turns back to Greg, wrinkled brow restored. “How—How did this even happen?”

                Greg shrugs. “She called me one night, asked if I wanted to have a drink. I said yes. That night, we….”

                “But you said you’re _having_ casual sex with her.”

                “I am.”

                “As in present tense,” Molly continues. “It’s going on right now.”

                “Well, obviously not _right now_ , Molly—”

                “Greg, how did this become an ongoing thing?”

                Greg shrugs again, at a loss for what else to do. “She suggested it. I thought about it, decided it made sense, and said yes. It’s been going well so far.”

                “Right.” Molly nods, her tongue visibly working the inside of her cheek. “Do you have a schedule, or?”

                “Er—an unofficial one,” Greg answers, “yes.”

                “And you’re not dating?” Molly checks.

                “No,” Greg affirms. “It’s just sex.”

                “Right.” Molly nods again, lips pressed into a thin line. “So, you’re friends with benefits, then.”

                Greg does a double-take at that. “I—I’m not sure I would call it _that_.”

                “And why not?”

                “Because—” There are a million reasons why Greg wouldn’t call it that, but for some reason, he chooses what’s probably the _worst_ one to vocalize: “We’re not friends, really.”

                Molly huffs, looking down at the table before her and shaking her head. She mutters under her breath, “Unbelievable.”

                “What?”

                “ _Nothing_ , Greg,” she says sharply. “Absolutely nothing.” Picking up the bowl to her left, she begins to charge out of the lab. As she passes him, she says, “’Don’t know _why_ I asked.”

                With that, she’s gone.

                ***

                It’s a few days later when Greg turns up at St. Bart’s again.

                Poking his head into the morgue, he starts with a cautious, “Hey.”

                Molly looks up from the body she’s observing and states, “I’m working, Greg.”

                “Do you have a minute to spare?” he asks hopefully.

                Molly sighs. “I guess.”

                It’s hardly an enthusiastic response, but it is a foot in the door, and at this rate, Greg will take anything he can get. He walks into the room, saying, “I, uh—wanted to talk to you. About the other day.”

                “Which one?” Molly says disinterestedly, picking up an instrument from her tray beside the cadaver.

                “The one when I told you about my…” Greg trails off, searching for the right word. He settles on, “My _thing_ with Maria.”

                “You mean your not-friends-with-benefits arrangement with Maria?” Molly counters nonchalantly, tone icy.

                “Er—yes,” Greg agrees. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that.”

                “I am calling it that.”

                “Yes, of course.”

                There’s a pause, during which time all that can be heard is Molly switching the utensils in her hand.

                “So, what about it?”

                “What about what?”

                “The day you told me about your _arrangement_ ,” Molly says coolly, cutting down the corpse’s chest, “with Maria.”

                “Er—right,” Greg says, his palms suddenly clammy. “I, uh—I wanted to make sure we were—okay.”

                Molly arches an eyebrow at Greg (hey, at least she’s finally looking at him). “Okay?”

                “Yeah, I mean,” Greg tries to explain, walking a few steps aimlessly. “It just seemed like you were—mad at me afterwards. And I just wanted to make sure that you’re—not.”

                “Why would I be mad?” Molly asks, but there’s an edge to it that tells Greg he should already know why she _is_ mad. But for the life of him, he can’t figure it out.

                “I—don’t know,” Greg replies carefully, peering slightly at Molly.

                “Exactly,” Molly says, returning to her work. “Because I have no reason to be mad. So I’m not mad.”

                “But—But you _seemed_ like—”

“What you do with your personal life is completely your business, Greg,” Molly cuts him off stiffly. “I really couldn’t care less.”

                “All right,” Greg says carefully. “So….we’re good then, yeah?”

                “Yup,” Molly replies, letting the “p” pop.

                “Good.” Greg nods. “I’ll, uh—I’ll just be going then.”

                “Bye,” Molly says loudly once he’s at the door, causing Greg to look over his shoulder. But she’s still looking down at the body before her, paying him absolutely no mind.

                ***

                Molly calls it off with Tom after the wedding.

                Greg doesn’t know what to do. He _wants_ to call it off with Maria (he has for a while now, actually), but he’s afraid that’ll be too transparent. Then again, if he’s going to go for this, doesn’t he _want_ to be transparent? Wait, _is_ he going for this?

                He settles on planning to call it off with Maria in a few weeks, and just being a friend to Molly for the time being. Which is what he _should_ be doing right now, anyways; it’s not like you’re supposed to make a move the second the girl breaks up with her fiancé.

                Thus, he visits Bart’s during his lunch break two days later. (Two days—Enough time for it not to seem creepy, but not enough for it to seem like he doesn’t care.)

                “Hey,” he says softly when he walks into the lab to find Molly hunched over a microscope.

                Molly looks up, eyes red, and puts on a smile. “Oh, hi, Greg!” she greets, too cheerfully. “How are you?”

                “I’m all right,” Greg answers, walking slowly towards the table. “How are you?”

                “I’m great,” she responds, smile still firmly in place but reading no more real. “Never better.”

                “Really?” Greg asks, still slowly approaching the table. “’Cause…I heard about…you and Tom. How you…called it off.”

                Her smile falters, but is readjusted as quickly as it almost fell. “Yeah, I did,” she says. She starts moving around her work station, turning off her microscope, taking off the slide, and preparing a new one, all very quickly and all while rambling in a far too loud voice, “And it’s a good thing, too. We were a terrible match, Tom and I. One of us had to end it. And this way, _I_ get to say that _I_ ended it.” She laughs, but it’s hollow, cold, and broken.

                Greg has come to stand next to Molly at the table. All he says is, softly, “Molly.”

                She falls apart.

                Collapsing against his chest, sobs racking her body, she weeps and weeps and weeps. Greg, initially taken aback by the onslaught of emotions and the physical onslaught, recovers and just holds her through it, murmuring reassuring words. He doesn’t know when he starts stroking her hair, but once he realizes he’s doing it, he doesn’t stop.

                Eventually, her breathing steadies, and the crying stops. She takes a deep breath, looking up at Greg. Greg smiles down at her apologetically. “There, there,” he murmurs, moving a bit of hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. “It’ll be all right.”

                And—When did Molly wrap her arms around Greg’s neck? When did Greg wrap his arms around Molly’s waist? Why isn’t Greg moving his hand away from where it’s ended up on Molly’s cheek?

                Why are they both just _standing_ here, _looking_ at each other?

                Greg knows the next instinctive step, and it’s exactly what he wants to do, and he’s pretty sure Molly even wants him to do it too right now, but he can’t.

Molly’s incredibly vulnerable right now, having a gaping hole in her life where her main source of affection once was. And Greg doesn’t want to just be a body with which Molly can distract herself, lips in which she can lose herself. When— _if_ —this happens, he wants her to choose him because he’s him, not because he’s there.

                Thus, he pulls away, albeit a bit awkwardly, untangling himself from Molly’s grasp. Once they’re properly situated again, standing with a respectable distance between them, Greg says, “I’m sorry, Molly. But—you always did deserve better than him, you know.”

                Molly laughs a little, but it comes out sounding more like a sob. She chokes out, “Thanks.”

                “’Course,” Greg replies softly, gazing at her with all the love he dare not speak out loud. “I hope you find all the love you deserve.”

                “You too.” And the way she says it—There’s a certain sadness to it that absolutely shatters Greg’s heart.

                But he clears his throat, straightens up, and says, “Well, I’m off then.”

                “’Kay,” Molly replies, and the way she’s looking at Greg, so lost and open, almost breaks his resolve and has him taking her in his arms, principles be damned. Almost.

                Instead, he simply clears his throat again, nods, and departs from the lab.           

***

                When Greg arrives at the lab a week later, he is a man on a mission.

                Today, he is going to ask Molly Hooper out. It’s happening. Really, truly happening. The thought both exhilarates and terrifies him.

                And for a while, it’s all going perfectly. He compliments her hair, he’s making her laugh, he’s showing genuine interest in her cats. Greg’s actually thinking that he really _will_ keep his promise to himself to do it, when—

                “The guy I’m seeing said—”

                Greg’s heart lurches.

                “You—You’re seeing someone?”

                “Yeah,” Molly confirms. “His name’s Jake. I’ve moved on. For real this time.”

                So, there it is. That’s that, then.

                “Uh-huh.” Greg nods, rubbing at his chin. “Right.”

                There’s an awkward pause before Molly asks, “So…how are things going with Maria?”

                “What?” Greg asks, being knocked out of his own stream of thoughts. Realizing what Molly’s asked, he answers dismissively, “Oh, uh—that’s done.”

                “Done?” Molly raises her eyebrows.

                “Yeah, done,” Greg confirms nonchalantly and definitively.

                “But—what—” Molly’s voice is coated in confusion, and she keeps opening and closing her mouth, as if unsure of which question she wants to ask first. “When? Did you end it, I mean.”

                “Yesterday.”

                “Why?”

                And Greg _could_ lie here—He could make up some bullshit about how it just wasn’t working, or how it just didn’t feel right, and you know what? Technically, those wouldn’t even be lies, but they wouldn’t be the real truth either, and Greg feels compelled to tell Molly the truth about this. So, he takes a deep breath, gathers his courage, and answers, “Because I was planning on asking you out.”

                Molly’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “You—what?”

                “I was planning on asking you out,” Greg repeats squarely. “Because I fancy you.”

                “You—you fancy me.”

                “Yes, I do,” Greg confirms. “I actually have for…quite a while now. And I thought that, since it’s been about a month since you broke up with Tom, that you might…”

                “That I might?” Molly prompts.

                “You know,” Greg says, rocking his head back and forth. “Be interested in…going on a date with me. And then…seeing where it goes. Of course, now that you’re with _Jake_ —”

                Molly cuts him effectively off by pressing her lips firmly to his.

                Greg freezes for a moment, unable to fully register just what is happening. But once he realizes _holy shit Molly is kissing me_ , he launches into action, grabbing her by the waist and holding her close.

                And all ideas he ever had of sweet, innocent Molly Hooper are effectively tossed out the window, because honestly, the way she kisses is _filthy_. She licks into Greg’s mouth, swirling her tongue around, biting down on his lip. Her hands grip at the back of his neck, fingernails digging in, desperation seeping into every one of her actions.

Greg, for his part, is too shocked to do little more than receive and hold on for dear life. He manages to move his lips against hers in what he hopes is a satisfying way, but that’s really all he has the strength to do.

Finally, Molly pulls away, hands still at the nape of Greg’s neck, leaving them both slightly panting. Greg opens his eyes slowly, afraid of the possibility of waking up from a dream. But—it’s _not_ a dream. Molly’s right there in front of him, eyes fluttering open, a hesitant smile on her face.

                Greg stares at her, wide-eyed. “Why—What did you—”

                “I fancy you, too,” Molly breathes, cutting him off.

                “You—You _do?_ ”

                “ _Yes_ ,” Molly insists, grinning. “I only started seeing Jake because I didn’t think you were an option.”

                “Why—Why would you think that I—Molly, I’ve been mad about you for _years_!”

                “Well, I _thought_ you might have feelings for me,” Molly explains. “But then, that day, when you came to visit me after I broke up with Tom, you were so—distant. I mean, we had that _moment_ , but…you pulled away so fast, I—I thought you were just…letting me down easy.”

                Greg’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “Letting _you_ — _You_ thought _I_ was letting _you_ down easy? You—Molly, you’re—Me? Rejecting _you?_ How could you ever—Molly, that is the most absurd thing I have ever heard!”

                “Well, it didn’t _sound_ absurd in my head!”

                “Well, it is,” Greg declares. “Molly, you’re so far out of my league, I don’t think we’re even playing the same game!” Molly giggles, but Greg insists, “I’m serious! Molly, you—you’re perfect.”

                Molly considers him for a moment, then says, “You really believe that, don’t you?”

                “I do,” Greg states, not even thinking about it.

                Molly smiles, shaking her head and looking down at the floor.

                “What?” Greg asks, suddenly worried. “Did I say something wrong?”

                “No,” Molly answers. She looks up at him, still smiling. “No, Greg. You said something very right. Something no man’s every said to me, actually.”

                “Well, it’s not news that most men are idiots.”

                “You’re not.”

                Greg gives a half-smile. “Ah, Molly, don’t go into this with your expectations so high.”

                “Too late.”

                Greg huffs out a small laugh, and Molly does too, and then they just smile at each other like kids. They stay like that for longer than either can say, just sizing each other up, before Molly says, “So…would you like to…get some coffee?”

                Greg grins, his heart thumping madly when he answers, “’Would love to.”

                And the way Molly grins back doesn’t just feel like the beginning of something—It feels like the beginning of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed, or didn't enjoy, or felt meh, or anything else. Just please leave a comment, please, my crops are Dying,


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